


the charioteers

by revolutionnaire



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Chariot Racing, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionnaire/pseuds/revolutionnaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see, when you make your life in the arena, you also accept that it is where you will meet your death. You wonder if each night is going to be your last. For this reason every moment becomes sacred, precious. Life is made more alive because of the certainty of death, and so too was our love.</p><p>(Ancient Rome chariot racing AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The  Reds

**Author's Note:**

> __  
> "Hast thou beheld, when from the jail they start,  
>  The youthful charioteers with beating heart  
> Rush to the race: and panting scarcely bear,  
> The extremes of feverish hopes and chilling fear;  
> Stoop to the reins and lash with all their force;  
> The flying chariot kindles in the course.  
> And now a-low and now a-loft they fly,  
> As borne through air and seem to touch the sky."  
> \- Virgil, _Georgics_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> some quick notes:  
> ▲ in this au, they race four-horse chariots in the roman style.  
> ▲ chariot racing was possibly the oldest, most popular spectator sport in ancient rome, and it was the only sport for which betting was legal.  
> ▲ the four racing companies or factions in roman chariot racing were the reds, blues, greens and whites. much like modern motor racing, multiple drivers would race for each faction, and each faction had their own livery, and a following of dedicated fans, patrons, and sponsors.  
> ▲ for more details, [wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chariot_racing#Roman_era) does a far better job of explaining chariot racing than i ever could. other sites for reference: [here](http://www.vroma.org/~bmcmanus/circus.html), and [here](https://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/online_tours/rome/chariot-racing_in_ancient_rome/chariot-racing_in_ancient_rome.aspx).  
> ▲ each chapter of this fic will feature a pairing from each faction; tags to be added accordingly.

**the reds**  
 _felipe massa/kimi raikkonen_

 

 

When the Reds announced they had acquired a new charioteer, I confess I did not think much of it.

Ours was a fickle sport; we gambled with our lives and lost more often than not. You were lucky if you saw five years. A new stable mate was inconsequential to me. Or so I had thought.

 

 

I first saw him as he left the stables, flanked by his four horses. They were grand, imperious beasts, well-muscled, with their full manes still free-flowing and unbraided. Yet they seemed common, even plain, next to the man leading them.

My first thought had been that he did not belong here.

He had skin that looked untouched by the sun, and the grace of a cat moving in the moonlight. His hair was a pale gold, like sand on the shore at dawn, and his eyes such a light green-gray they looked like gemstones. He was still slim as the sport required, and his bones delicate, but there was a solid heft to him that made him appear bigger than the rest of the charioteers.

He was like no charioteer I had ever seen before. He seemed more fit for the royal court, or perhaps a hero to do battle with beasts.

 

 

I was only a stable boy. I was never meant for the chariot. If fate had not taken the form of a spirited stallion and thrown a Red driver to his death just hours before a race, I would never have found myself at the reins at all.

But who can say what Kimi was meant for?

He never spoke of his home land, of what strange country they wrenched him from. His name was alien on all our tongues yet we could not get enough of it. Soon after his arrival, word had spread that he was the son of a king; that he had divine blood in his veins. Some said he was in exile and the hippodrome was his punishment, others that he was taking the sacrifice. You were inclined to believe it-- just from the way his cool impassive eyes, calm and steady, held the gaze of anyone, from slave to lord. And certainly there was something princely about the soft turn of his lips, and the fine translucent planes of his cheeks.

He never spoke of his past - whether he was nobility or peasant, dishonoured exile or sacrificial lamb - and I found I did not care to know.

 

 

In those days, I would offer a quick prayer to Apollo before each race, before I fixed the reins around my waist and sheathed the dagger on my belt. It was tradition for the Reds pray to Mars but I had always found favour with Apollo.

I felt the strength come into my arms. It was to be a good race. The night before I had sacrificed a dove to him; she had yielded willingly in my hands as though she had been put on this earth to go to the god for me.

Kimi, on the other hand, was always silent before the races. The most he did was wave to the baying spectators as he drove his chariot to the starting line. As far as I could tell, he prayed to no god.

 

 

We spoke once, and I found his voice quite unlike what I had expected. He had proven himself to be a skilled racer and I had gone, out of respect, to pay him my compliments and to thank him for the spectacular way he had driven a rival chariot - a young upstart from the Blues, I believe - off the track, allowing us to clinch a first and second finish.

He stared at me, as though in disbelief that I dared speak to him, and for a long painful while, said nothing. He had put distance between himself and the rest of the stable, whether it was his design or just an unfortunate consequence I could not be sure. I had just begun to fear that I had angered him in some way, or given him insult, when a smile broke out upon his face. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for his smile. Suddenly cold marble was turned warm, living flesh; his chillingly beautiful face now charming and boyish. And the best thing of all-- it was directed at me.

 

 

We were only four races into the season when a spoke broke off the wheel of the chariot ahead of me and went flying through the air to strike me full in the head. If not for the helmet that lessened its force, I would have been left dead where I fell, the surgeon told me later.

There were no ill feelings that followed the incident. No racer ever means to do harm to another, united as we were in our shared death, and certainly not in this case, for the spoke had come from the wheel of my fellow countryman, a charioteer from the Green stable some years my senior.

When I recovered, we drank to my good fortune, our bonds closer than ever. I sacrificed a rooster to Apollo to thank him for his protection and for my life. Yet it was not the sun-god's golden eyes I remember from those hazy days I spent confined to bed with my injury, but the cold unblinking gray eyes of my team mate. They had never left my side.

 

 

The order came in: at the next race, I was to move over and give the victory to him. Our horses were fast that week, I knew the fight would be between me and him. There was to be an unspeakably rich man in the audience that race - a senator, some said - who had fallen in love with Kimi and was willing to pay good money to see him win. I had no choice but to concur.

You see, we were never free men. To think otherwise was a mistake.

 

 

I moved with bare feet down the stone floor of the corridor until I found his room. In the slit of moonlight, I could make him out lying on the thin pallet, unmoving.

I had seen him just a few hours ago as the sun set, dressed like a prince in his finest garb, his fair limbs gilded with gold all the way down to his slim wrists. When he strode past me, he smelled of rose water and almond oil. No doubt he had been called upon yet again for the evening. He had fast become beloved among the nobles, and tonight had been just another of the many he had been called to spend with a patron-- perhaps even that same senator who had demanded his win. I knew there was no sense in jealousy. It was only to be expected of someone with his beauty. His eyes met mine for a second and then I watched him go in a whisper of silk and the singing of jewellery.

But now in bed his skin was bare, stripped of all adornment, and all the more lovelier for it. Not even the finest silk robes, nor all of Midas' gold nor the diamonds from Pluto's mines could have made him more beautiful than he was in that moment.

I went to him, like Theseus seeking out Ariadne in the deep bowels of the Labyrinth.

His skin was warm when I touched it, his arms welcoming and grateful. His mouth, soft and yielding, tasted of expensive wine. The sound of disapproval was on my lips before I had the good sense to call it back.

"You should not have, so close to the race."

"You think the race ends when we leave the arena?" His voice was soft without any gentleness, sneering and low. I could not begrudge him his tone, for I knew he spoke the truth. The race never ends, not when we step off the chariots covered in dust and sweat, not when our horses are unharnessed and asleep in the stables. I was more than aware how favour from the patrons was as crucial as a win in the arena. One could not exist without the other. I was also aware how much he hated it.

So I buried my face into the smooth curve of his neck and I heard him say my name.

His hands had found their way to my waist, just the light touch of fingertips first, and then they seized me with a terrifying passion, stealing the air from my lungs.

When our lips met again, I could have died from it. He was so beautiful, and till this day I do not know why he chose me, when he could have had his pick of all of Rome. He could have had emperors, goddesses; he could have started wars-- after all his face alone had been the cause of countless brawls throughout the streets. Yet in such a short time he had become so close to my heart and I to his; to each other we were the blessed, the beloved.

His skin was still soft and fragrant from the perfumed oil he had anointed himself with. I breathed it in deep within me and held it there, knowing that in years I might have to draw strength from it. You see, when you make your life in the arena, you also accept that it is where you will meet your death. You wonder if each night is going to be your last. For this reason every moment becomes sacred, precious. Life is made more alive because of the certainty of death, and so too was our love.

He had pulled my robes from my body, and now there was nothing between us but our skin. I would have been content to have spent the night like that, lying in his arms and doing nothing else, but he made it clear he wanted more.

I did not wish to hurt him that way, not when the race was going to make its own demands on his body the next morning. But he was insistent, grabbing at me and trying to guide my hands to do as he wished. When I refused, he flipped me on my back like we were wrestlers in a ring. Perhaps he had had enough wine at dinner to dull the pain or perhaps - and the realisation turned my blood cold - it didn't matter-- as the dreadful act had already been committed. With a sudden fury that made my eyes hot with tears, I wondered what he had been made to do at the senator's house. Had this been any other world, had the wheel spun my fate any differently, I know I would have killed the cursed beast with my own hand before the sun was in the sky again.

I had no choice. I could not refuse him. It was as though he had cast a spell and I could resist him no longer. He lowered himself onto me, and I found he was already slick and ready. Had he prepared himself for me, or was this yet another gift from the dinner? I couldn't bear to think of it and banished the thoughts from my head.

His voice was a fever that burned through my head and down to the core of my soul. I gripped his his hips stronger and more desperate than I had held on to anything before, as though the contest for his heart was a race I could not afford to lose.

He kissed me once again when we finished, and I felt that his face was damp. But in the dark, I could not tell if it was tears or sweat.

 

 

At the race the next day, I did as I was told. I slowed my chariot in the penultimate lap and he thundered past me. I did not mind so much. If the glory of victory could not be mine, then at least it was his. And then perhaps later at night we could share in it together, and that was enough. 

That was enough for me.


	2. The Greens

**the greens**  
 _lewis hamilton/nico rosberg_

 

 

We had been friends once.

We had grown up for the track together. In the days of our boyhood, our names had followed each other, as sure as the stars would follow the moon. They do so even now, only it feels more like the surety of decay following death.

 

 

Nico was as close to nobility as a charioteer could get. His father, a champion charioteer in his youth, had achieved not just the rare feat of winning his freedom, but had even found the time to marry and father a son. And then, instead of squandering away his winnings, decided to buy a chariot team of his own.

He was given his first horse before he could even walk. Some said the first time Nico stepped onto the paddock, four stallions walked straight up to him and offered him their brows, as gentle as spring lambs. But that was only a rumour started by his nurses, and I chose to give no weight to the mindless babbling of old women. Still, Nico and his golden horses came to be revered and adored throughout the land.

I, on the other hand, lived not such a glamorous life. I was picked for the chariot by a scout that came to our village and when I was just six years old. He had seen the way I scurried across a gnarled tree branch, as that was my game as a boy, and told me that such a sure footed child would be wasted tilling the soil.

For all our differences, we had always been close in those days. We were close in age, and being the youngest boys at the training school, found ourselves naturally drawn to each other. As our friendship grew, we felt each other's mind as keenly as we felt our own, and often we joked that it was a shame that chariots were not driven by two men for we would no doubt win every race.

I did not give much thought to it-- friendship comes easy to young boys, remember. It was not until I was much older that I realised the bond I took for granted with Nico was in fact a rare thing.

Yet even then there was a hint of something like a bad augur that coloured us, a malignant star in our horoscopes. Like a coal, it smouldered carefully before bringing the fire that would bear down on us later in our lives. For no reason at all we would find ourselves at each other's throats, a flame blazing in our eyes, setting us upon each other like animals and driving us on like a madness in the blood. We could be talking civilly and then the fire would seize us, spurred by a remark uncalled for or a manner disliked. We wrestled and gave each other countless bruises, but it raised few eyebrows, wrestling being the sport of boys like us. Even in our own minds, there was only the slightest suspicion that these were not the harmless scuffles of childhood.

Sure enough, as we grew older, we learnt to tame the fire in our blood. Perhaps the chariots took it from us, dampened it like sand or drew its attention away. Still I knew it lurked within my veins. It was only some time before it would make itself known.

 

 

When we found ourselves both racing for the Greens, we cheered and drank to it, brashly claiming it was the next best thing to the two-man chariots we dreamed about in our childhood.

We would be champions, he swore. We would be champions together.

I was young and foolish enough to believe him.

 

 

I had always favoured taking the inside line, even if it meant going slow and sacrificing a few positions at the start. I had it this race, and was preparing my horses for the turn when I heard the thundering of hooves approaching. The lash of the whip was conspicuously absent and from that I knew. There was only one man in the arena that raced without the whip. It was Nico.

He was so close I could feel the hot breath of his famous horses upon my shoulder, the foam of their spittle and sweat lashing down on me like rain. He was too close. I had no escape, I could not yield even if I wanted to. I was pressed up against the turn and his chariot barely left space between us for a shade to pass through.

With a ghastly shriek, his wheel drove into mine, shattering it into splinters. My chariot pitched violently on its side, like a great lame beast. It was a miracle that I kept my balance long enough to slow my horses and cling on to my chariot. Nico was fine, of course, as he always was because his chariots were strong in those days. I survived but my race was over. The screaming from the stands was hideous. They would hate him now. Competition in the hippodrome was appreciated but only if it was in good sport. What he had done was repulsive, and he must have known it.

When I cornered him after the race, his face was as cold and expressionless as a block of marble. I could not stand the sight of him, this man that had just hours before smiled and tossed his golden hair and called himself my friend. 

He dared call us friends? He was no friend to me. He had not been for months, and certainly no longer. He had destroyed my race, stolen my victory. How much did he hate me, that the thought of my victory was so unbearable to him? That he would risk his race and his life to prevent it? It left me so bitter, I could have cried.

The fire was back and I felt it take hold, as sure and familiar as an old foe. I knew he felt the same, from the way his dark eyes narrowed and his right hand closed in a tight fist by his side. It enraged me even more. What reason did he have for his anger? What right did he have?

I thought of hurling insults at him, but it did not feel right. This was not a cheap brawl. It is the quietest of fights that are the most dangerous. As it was, a deadly silence festered between us. 

And then, like a leopard he was upon me. My limbs were no longer mine; they moved on their own to meet his as though possessed by some god. 

After all our years together, we were wrestling again. But years driving the chariot had made us strong, and our blows had far more terrifying force than they ever did when we were children. Still, being larger and stronger than me, the advantage was his. I cursed him. Was it not enough that he had been born with so much more than me; the gods had to give him size and strength that dwarfed my own?

Soon he had me pinned to the ground and I shut my eyes, bracing myself for the blows when I felt his forehead press against my own. Against my will, my eyes flew open, and in hindsight I wish they had not, because then I saw his face. It was the face of a wretched broken man, torn and twisted with anguish. His eyes were red, as though at any moment tears would spill from them.

I did not know what to do. We had not spoken in months. The arena had soured the bonds between us, each of us battling to be the best driver for the Greens. Despite all that, I was not so heartless. On another day, the sight may have moved me. But not today, not after what he had done.

"I swear," he cried. "It was not on purpose. I could not see how close the wheels were." 

I fixed my jaw and turned away from him and still he continued to grovel and beg.

"Please, Lewis. It was an accident. If our friendship ever meant anything to you, you would believe me."

"Friends?" I spat, with all the venom I could muster. I struggled against him but his hold was still strong. "If this is what comes from your friendship then I would not wish it on Hades." 

The strength went out of his body then. His head hung pitifully, like an animal that went to the altar knowing its fate. I took the opportunity to yank myself free from his grasp. His chest gave a long shudder and heaved, as though it missed me under him.

"I'm sorry. What can I do to have your forgiveness?"

Now that I was calmer, and the battle haze had cleared from my eyes, I could once again feel his mind as I did when we were boys. I knew he spoke the truth. My fury ebbed away slowly.

He sensed this too, and took my hand in his, clasping it so tight it felt like a death grip. His eyes begged me to speak but I could not find the words. 

What came next, I still cannot speak of without my blood running hot. 

He touched me like he loved me. I was not prepared for it. His hands, when they lingered on my skin, were gentle and kind. He was thoughtful; as sentimental as though I were a maiden in his bed.

When I looked up at him, I recognised the same fire, the blood madness in his eyes. But it did not seem like anger. 

It was something else entirely, and for reasons I still do not understand, left me even more terrified.


	3. The Blues

**the blues**  
 _mark webber/sebastian vettel_

 

 

The Blues pray to Neptune, the bull-king from the sea, and so call themselves the Bulls. 

Yet bulls they are not. Bulls are proud and honourable, and this was not.

 

 

It began, you see, with a pebble on the practice track. Just one pebble, just one simple accident. It was that pebble that lodged itself in the shoe of one of Sebastian’s horses. Unbalanced, the wretched creature stumbled and broke its forelegs in the fall.

We knew, even before it made its sad attempts to get back on its feet, that it was done for.

 

 

The stable master came for me in the evening, with a grim face that told me all I needed to know.

"Sebastian is short a horse," he said. "We're going to harness Incitata to Sebastian's chariot."

Although I knew it was coming, it did little to lessen the blow. The flare of anger was like the hiss of a serpent coiled tight around my bowels. Incitata was my best horse and the _funalis_ of my team-- the one who made the turns first on the inside and steadied the horses through it. My team had trained together for years; they had grown used to each other, and to put a completely new horse in her position was ridiculous. 

"You know my predicament, " he sighed. “You are the only other one who races with mares."

I knew it well; I could not deny that he was right. We would never race teams of mixed sexes. All-stallion teams were faster as a rule, but mares were quicker to learn and easier to handle. But mixing the two was unheard of. 

It was not so uncommon in the past to have mares lead the chariot, but in recent years they had fallen out of favour, with the sport enjoying the high speed of stallions. For many years my mares were the only ones of their kind in the arena. I did not have many victories to my name, but I still had my life, and that was victory enough for me.

And then came this boy, this Sebastian, with his team of mares. They were like stallions themselves, high-stepping and hot-blooded, and as fast as a storm on the track. They seemed to have come from the depths of the underworld themselves, with their gleaming black hides and wild eyes. Looking at them, you would never believe that it was Sebastian who raced them, for he seemed to me a gentle child. But in the chariot, he was a different beast completely—imperiously confident, driving his horses without fear.

Still, what the Bulls were trying to do was as unforgivable as it was obvious. It was as clear as day, what they were doing. They were taking my mare and giving her to Sebastian. They were sacrificing my race for his.

"And what of my own race?"

"Ferox is a good horse, and fleet-footed. You can have him lead in Incitata's place."

"Ferox is a stallion!"

"A gelding." A small improvement, but still it was foolish to think a team would run as well with a new horse leading them. 

"They haven't had a single run together." I knew there was nothing more I could do, yet I wasn’t ready to let it go. "Why can't Sebastian take Ferox? It was his horse that fell, after all."

I knew, before the question had left my lips that I needn't have asked. The answer was clear enough. 

"You are familiar enough with the circus, are you not?" The senior stable master looked away, irritated, as though to show me what trouble I was causing him. Finally he spoke again. "There is gold on Sebastian, Mark. Bets have been placed." It was not an apology by any means, but it was more than most would ever get. Still it was not enough. It was only my years and my experience that warranted their indulging me with an explanation, but it was that same experience that meant I, of all people, should understand why this was happening.

He looked at me sternly, reminding me of my place. "You will take Ferox and that's the last I'll hear of it. After the race, we'll find a new _funalis_ for Sebastian and you can have Incitata back."

 

 

Hours before the race, I went to the paddock in a rage, and found Sebastian there. He was a sorry sight, red-eyed and pale-faced. He stood forlornly at the gates and I noticed the dirt on his fingers, and ash from the funeral pyre on his robes. 

"Mark," he said, when he spotted me. His eyes widened, and he looked ashamed, as though I had caught him in the middle of something shameful. "I was saying my farewells to Bucephala."

Of course. He had been mourning his horse.

"She raced well," I said, remembering the name of his favourite horse. So it had been his beloved Bucephala who had died—I still had not learnt to tell his horses apart yet. One black mare was very much like another. My own Incitata was a sweet dappled thing, I thought idly; her soft mottled grey coat would look out of place among Sebastian’s own jet-black fleet. 

"She was my first horse," he said, voice wavering. And then stronger, "We began training at the same age. We had our first race together."

I suddenly remembered that Sebastian was little more than a boy. He was so good a charioteer, it was easy to forget it hadn't even been half a year since he entered the arena. 

I, for all my years, had never lost a horse. They were our livelihoods, yes, and some even saw them as mere extensions of the chariot, as dispensable as a wheel or a yoke. Needless to say, those charioteers never made it far. On the other extreme were charioteers who loved their horses as though they were their own flesh and blood. These men never made it far either; for their love turned into a petrifying fear on the track, unwilling to race and risk the lives of the horses they loved like their own children.

No, the secret of success was to strike a perfect balance in the bond between a charioteer and his horses. You had to love them and treasure them, but you could not deny them their nature and their breeding any less than you would deny the gods their sacrifice. 

And the loss of a horse – especially one as beloved as Bucephala was to Sebastian – was devastating, and lasted long past just one race. I had heard stories of charioteers and horses alike in the past who, so traumatised by the death of a horse, never raced again.

My heart softened then, just a bit. In my anger, I had not given a thought to Sebastian.

I hated this, this insidious hold the sport had over me. It turned men into beasts; brothers into blood-enemies. We had learnt to respect our horses, we had learnt to respect even death, but we had forgotten each other along the way.

He looked as though he was about to weep again, and I hurried to speak.

"She would not have gone any other way. And it was a good death." The words came to me easier than I had thought, and I was surprised to find conviction stirring in my throat. He looked at me, the tears frozen in his eyes. "Be proud and happy for her."

He managed a small anguished smile. "I have kept a lock of her mane," he said through his tears. “I will carry it with me when I race."

The hippodrome was no place for sentimentality, I thought bitterly. But the boy should be allowed his fancies while he was still young.

"That is well. But you must do her memory honour, and race as best you can."

At this he startled. 

"They've given me your horse." Sebastian sounded almost apologetic. "I would have taken Ferox, only they didn't give me any say in the matter."

When I said nothing, he appeared to crumble. 

In truth, my silence did not stem from rage, but from a sickening guilt. My anger towards him had been unjustified and utterly misplaced. He was a slave to them just as much as I was.

"When you drive Incitata towards the turn," I said finally. "Give her the reins to make the turn a little earlier than you would. She'll thank you for it, and you her."

Sebastian's eyes grew wide in surprise, as though he could not believe what I was telling him, that I was not angry at him. 

"Mark," he sighed, his voice shaking. 

"It will be fine, boy," I said, turning away because I couldn’t bear it; the look on his tear-streaked face.. "Incitata is smart; she will see your horses and steady them just as well as she did mine."

"No, it's not that. It's not the race I fear."

"What is it then? Hurry, we haven't much time before the race."

Sebastian cast his gaze aside. 

"I have always liked you." He swiped at his face, still bare and smooth as a child’s, trying to dash the tears away but succeeding only in marking it further with ash and dirt. "You've always been so kind to me. After today I feared it would all be ruined between us. I was so sure."

Had I really? Had I truly been kind to him? I had treated him with the respect I afforded any other charioteer. And in any case, what was there to like? What indication had I ever given Sebastian that I was somebody worth thinking about that way?

"You're being foolish," I told him roughly, only because I had nothing else to say or do. 

"Even so, I must thank you." Suddenly, all traces of sorrow and fear vanished from his face, replaced by a smile that was almost coy and coquettish. It passed across his face like a shade, but I caught it before it faded. I felt a chill in my heart. It was as though the mask of Sebastian’s pleasant boyish face had slipped, and I had caught sight of the true beast that lurked beneath. A beast in the guise of a boy, who could change his emotions at will—one minute a shy, gentle boy; and the next, a wicked grinning thing who looked at me as though I were his for the taking.

Before I could say anything, he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. He may have looked like a boy, but the fervour with which he kissed me was anything but. It was a side of him I didn't expect; I could not believe this was the same stuttering tearful boy that had trembled before me just minutes ago. Before he pulled away, he ran the hot tip of his tongue along the inside of my mouth. I am ashamed to say it stirred my blood.

Soon after he left, sauntering off with a sway to his hips, but I remained frozen in place, gripped with an uneasy fear. I had heard rumours of visions like this, of messages delivered by gods. I felt as though I had been given such a message, a glimpse of the future in a divine omen. _Sebastian is not what he seems to be_ , it said to me. 

_He will be a champion Rome has not seen the likes of in years. He knows this fate, and he wants it. And he will hurt you. He will hurt you if it gives him what he wants._


	4. The Whites

**the whites**  
 _rob smedley/valtteri bottas_

 

 

“You're here again, Rob.” 

The boy's voice rang out clear across the track, musical above the thump and clatter of hooves against packed dirt, and although I had long since given up on wishful thinking, I thought there was something quite like delight in it.

I watched him drive his horses over, my eyes drawn to him as they had been so many times in the months since we met. Valtteri was a fair boy of twenty years; broad in the shoulder, with slender limbs and soft silvery blonde hair worn cropped close to his head that only seemed to make him look younger rather than the opposite. He had not been racing long, but still he was good and steadfast in the chariot. There was a kingly strength to the clench of his jaw; and even through the most heated of races, every feature of his face remained as calm and quiet as a frozen lake, except for his eyes that burned a clear unwavering blue.

He was beautiful to watch.

“I have made adjustments to the harness,” I called out when he had drawn closer. After handing the reins of his horses to a stableboy, he cleared the fence in a graceful leap and regarded me warmly, a hand extended in the greeting for elders. I smiled, pleased-- years in the arena had not taken his manners from him.

I took the offered hand, and found it warm and welcome in my own. “You should be better able to make those sharp turns at the end. Come see.”

 

 

“Oh yes,” he exclaimed in earnest when we reached my workshop. The new leather was still stiff and unyielding in his hands but he could already see it would serve him better than the old one. “This is good. And I meant to tell you this yesterday evening-- I think we should shorten Cirratus' halter here. He likes to run with his head high in the gallop, you see, and the excess length flies about his neck. It's costing him speed.”

“I see what you mean. You have a good eye for your horses.” I could not hold back a small smile of approval, which he caught and returned shyly. His cheeks coloured a slight pink and he seemed at a loss for words.

“It's a compliment, boy,” I said gently. “Not many pay attention to the horses when they run.”

“I can't understand why. They are alive, just as you are and as I am.” 

I said he was beautiful to look at, and he was, but that was not what I loved best about him. I was not that kind of man. 

He had a wisdom and a grounding calmness rare even in men twice his age. His simple insight came to him like an instinct, and he stated his thoughts simply, without force or arrogance. When he turned his eye upon himself, uncoloured by pride or bias, he was both as fair a judge and as unforgiving a critic one could ask for. One felt it most keenly then, his honesty. But even more remarkable to me was the feel he had for his horses, a deep, almost god-like understanding of their minds that spoke to me of the sensitivity of his soul.

On the track, it turned him into a skilled racer, and a joy to work with. I was not new to the art of chariot making, and I had worked with many charioteers in my time. Valtteri was, to me, like a prince among them. I hadn’t thought much of him when we were first introduced, thinking only that he was just another poor soul come to try his fate, but slowly – for the reasons I stated before - my esteem and respect for him had grown.

“I'll do as you've asked,” I said. The words weighed heavy on my tongue. He had the way of kings about him and it pulled strong at my heart. “You'll have the new halter tomorrow.”

I expected him to leave then, but he did not. He worried at his lip with his teeth, as though he were nervous.

Finally he spoke, a little bashfully. “Might I stay and watch you work?” His eyes barely met mine. It was almost strange to see him like this, when I had become so accustomed to seeing him, so imperious and noble, in the chariot. “I would better understand how to use it if I watched.”

“You won't be fighting anyone for front row seats,” I said, laughing. Most charioteers were not interested in my work, caring only that their horses were fast and that their chariots carried them to the end without falling apart. They had only glory on their mind, with no curiosity for what would give it to them. And why should they? In the end, they were the ones who had the love of the people, the riches and the laurel leaves. 

I, on the other hand, had learnt how to find my own glory in watching my chariots cross the finish line. 

“You can come this evening,” I told him. “I don't intend to start work until the sun goes down.”

He did leave then, and as he walked away, light-footed and graceful, I saw him turn to cast one last look at me. It made my heart sing.

 

 

He brought a small supper with him that evening; bread and cheese and olive oil that he poured carefully into a small dish. “This is from the first race I ever won,” he said proudly, offering the dish to me.

“I remember,” I said. “I harnessed your horses that race.”

“Oh, so do I.” Valtteri's face glowed with the memory. “The stable boy was ill that morning and so you took care of the harnesses. And I won. You were like a good luck charm.”

It was spring, I remember, when fortune had decided to blow Valtteri's way and shower him with victory. It had only been a matter of time; he had raced some months with such skill you knew he was owed the victories. You could see it bearing down on him with all the certainty of a sign from the gods. The spectators could see it too; they could smell the comings of his victory in the air as the hound smells the deer, and they bayed for him. The promise of greatness settled around his shoulders like a king's mantle, and he wore it, as he did everything else, with grace. 

Race after race, I was rewarded not just the sight of my chariot storming past the finish line ahead of the rest, but of him-- him with laurel leaves on his brow and a smile brighter than the heavens. For me, it was worth more than all the gold or esteem of Rome.

And here he was, this wonderful young champion, calling me his charm. 

“I've been called many things, boy,” I told him. “But never that.”

“Well, you are to me,” he said, his face taking on an air of adamant determination. It made him look even younger than ever and I had to smile. “I refuse to believe otherwise. It cannot be sheer coincidence that my first victory came under your hand.” 

Perhaps there was a shard of truth to his fancies. Since accepting the position of chariot master for the Whites, I had seen my reputation grow; and alongside me, his own shooting star, faithful and magnificent.

 

 

After we cleared away our meal, he settled down to watch me. I soon became absorbed in my work, and it must have been hours before I realised I had not heard a sound from him. He must have gotten bored and left, I thought, my heart sinking despite itself. My work did not agree with him after all. Dismayed, I turned to put my tools away and then I saw him.

He had fallen asleep, the length of his body curled in on itself, on a bench at the back of the workshop. His brow was smooth and child-like in his slumber, the loose sprawl of his limbs guileless and charming. The reason for his silence soon became clear. Next to him was a scroll of papyrus covered in notes and meticulous sketches. The charcoal was still in his hand, which was now blackened down to the palm. My heart leapt into my mouth with unexpected joy. 

 

 

“The chariot felt good today.” Valtteri came to me covered with dust and sweat from the race, his cheeks still flushed with exertion and speed. He seemed to glow with some sort of inner light before me, his smile was blinding. A servant came to scrape the sweat from his bare shoulders and deposited it carefully into a small ampoule. 

“It was even better than before,” he added emphatically when we were once again alone. He sighed deeply, and his smile grew wider, like a youth feeling the first flourishes of new love. 

I looked at him, silent, a part of me still not believing that it was me he came to after a win.

I found my voice at last. “You noticed?”

“How could I not? I have never had an easier drive.” He was beaming. In another time, I thought to myself, I would die for that smile on his face and the shimmering blue of his eyes. “It was like the wind itself on the straight, and it seemed to know me; it did everything I wanted it to before I even asked.”

I found myself flush with admiration again-- from just one race he had caught on to the behaviour of his chariot under him.

He gripped my shoulders gleefully, not knowing what it did to my heart. “How do you do it?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do.” 

I leaned in, to be close to him more than anything, whispering as though we were conspirators in some great secret plan.

“I watch you,” I said.

“You watch me?”

“Yes. I watch you just as you watch your horses. How you stand in the chariot, and how you move with the race. I have studied where you lean into the turns, and how you use your weight-- most men don't give thought to the charioteer, but I need to know it so I can properly weight your chariot to best suit you. The slightest unbalance can cost you seconds, and it's the seconds that win you the race.”

He was looking at me, enthralled. 

“So when you say it is as if your chariot knows you and your wishes,” I paused to take a breath. His eyes never left mine. “It is because I know you.”

Valtteri lowered his eyes then, thinking it would hide any expression from me, but I had seen all I needed to see.

It looked, to my own admittedly clouded eyes, very much like love.

 

 

“I hope you don't mind-- I had something made for you with the winnings from the last race. It doesn't seem fair that you aren't compensated for your work.”

He placed the package gently in my hands and stepped back, like a child awaiting praise or reproach.

I unwrapped it, finding a pair of gloves within. “Made from the skin of a bull calf,” Valtteri said eagerly. “The vendor said they were soft but strong.” 

He paused, uncertain. “I could not help but notice the wounds on your hands. It must be all the work you do with the oven, and the untreated wood.”

“Thank you,” I managed at last. I ran my fingers over the material. It was as soft as promised. Believe it or not, it was my first gift. Love tokens and gifts were for the drivers, not the chariot master. “I'll wear them and think of you.”

Valtteri blushed, his eyes darting away as they did when he was embarrassed. “You sound like a general speaking to his lady.”

“Do I? Would that make you my lady then?”

He laughed lightly, seemingly not making much of my joke. 

Familiarity had made me bolder in my interactions with the boy. It was nice not to have to watch my tongue, for once. That I was rewarded with that sweet unguarded smile for it was just an added blessing.

 

 

Valtteri brought even more little gifts after that-- one day a delicately wrapped collection of sweet pastries from the market, and the next a new stoke for my kiln -- all purchased with his winnings. Winnings, that he said, would never have been his without me.

I appreciated them, of course, but they were nothing compared to the one who brought them to me.

 

 

I dreamt of kissing him.

I dreamt of him in my bed; the golden boy with the wind in his hair. I dreamt of him asleep next to me. Most of all, I dreamt of him safe and quiet in my arms.

 

 

The arena was a cold master, you see; it gave glory with one hand and death with the other.

Two days ago, a collision at the first turn of the hippodrome had taken the life of a young charioteer. Unable to free himself from the reins, his horses dragged him across the dirt for an entire lap and he had died, speared by the splinters of his own destroyed chariot. 

It was not uncommon that they should meet death in the arena. The arena, like a vengeful god, demanded its sacrifices. They knew this. It was the blood price they had agreed to.

But I had not.

I was not going to give it this. I knew what I had to do: I would make it so that the hand that brought death would never touch Valtteri. 

 

 

I single-mindedly threw myself into my work, and it did not escape his eyes. He had taken to visiting me often, blowing into my workshop fresh from practice and smelling like horses. I humoured him gladly; his interest in the art of chariot-making was so keen, I would say that he should stop racing chariots and start building them. He had laughed, but I was only half-joking.

Since the incident, I had been more than a little short with him; paying him little attention when he came to visit, so absorbed was I in trying to cheat his fate.

Finally he came to me one day, his brow knitted in rare anger. He placed a heavy fist on my table, and clenched it tight when I would not raise my eyes to meet his.

“Rob,” he said. I heard him throw his fist down to crash against the wood of the table, and then the sound of him pacing around. “You've been working yourself to the bone. When did you last take a walk, or a meal? The chariots are fast enough, leave them be for just a moment.”

You see, it was not just me who has grown familiar in his speech.

Now I whirled around to face him, sending my tools clattering to the floor.

“No. It is not enough to be fast,” I said, my voice rising in frustration. “I need them to be _safe_. Don't you see?”

I unravelled the plan of the hippodrome and threw it down on the table for him to see.

“The danger comes at the turn, here. This is where you are most likely to lose control of the chariot and where the collisions happen. Because you wear the reins around your waist in the double hitch, if you are thrown, you cannot free yourself from the chariot. You have a dagger, yes, but how many lives has that actually saved? Sawing through leather as you are dragged through the dust-- I doubt you could do it standing on firm ground now as you are. The horses will trample you before you even unsheath it. But if I could only make reins that will detach without needing to be cut, imagine what danger could be spared.”

He said nothing, and if I had been in a better frame of mind, I might have wondered what he was thinking of. Instead, I continued my frenzied rant.

“And it is in the chariot too. We sacrifice sturdiness for speed.” I gestured at his own chariot, lying obediently before us. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time; a sleek contraption of supple, slender poles of wood lashed together with rawhide-- light materials that shattered easily into deadly spears. “You are better off riding in a wicker basket. If only I could find a material both light and strong.”

Valtteri looked at me hopelessly. He must have thought that I had lost my mind. And perhaps I had. Love had made me foolish.

“The public will not be happy if they knew,” he said after some careful thought. The allure of the chariot races is in the danger, he knew that. As did I. After all, the siren song of the race track was the promise of their death. 

“Do you think I would care about the public if anything happened to you?”

There was a terrible, trembling moment of silence.

“No.” 

Even after all this, we still had not acknowledged our affection for each other. Although it burned strong within us, we had never voiced it aloud or given it a name. 

But there it was now, and it compelled me to touch him with one sad, helpless hand. He did not pull away as I had feared. Instead, he closed his own steady hand over mine, and looked at me with all the trust and solidarity of warriors sworn to each other.

I knew then that I had his love. I would never lose it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never written a multi-chaptered work before and so now that we've come to the end, i feel like i should say something. to anyone who read this, thank you. as much as i like to think i write for myself and for writing's sake, it is still always a great feeling to hear that your work is read and enjoyed by other people. the F1 fandom is small, and the subset that enjoy my pairings of choice even more so. 
> 
> thank you for giving me and my silly little OTPs and ambitious AU ideas a chance. i had so much fun writing this, and it's seen me through anxiety and farewells and heartbreak, so it's definitely a project that means a lot to me. to see other people willing to read and enjoy it has made me happier than i ever thought possible.


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